and then he fell, clutching his bleeding midsection.
“You cannot be here,” Sir Neil said to her.
She ignored him, seizing the pot the woman had thrown and rushing to the fire pit with it. For an instant she paused, uncertain of how to put the hot oil into her pot.
The young blonde woman, whose life she had saved, now held a ladle and she scooped the boiling oil into her cauldron. Their eyes met.
Margaret smiled grimly, turned and found herself flinging oil onto another soldier climbing across her walls. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Neil wielding his sword against an enemy soldier, the two men exchanging frightening blows.
Her oil struck the man on his face, neck and shoulders. He screamed, falling off her walls.
But another man was behind her. Margaret whirled, throwing the contents at the next man. As he fell, she thought, This is impossible. We will never keep this up.
But for the next few minutes, or perhaps the next few hours, that is exactly what she and the blonde woman did. Even as the invaders fell from the ladders and the walls, others succeeded in landing upon the ramparts, where Sir Neil, Malcolm and his men engaged them with their swords, maces and daggers.
“Lady,” she heard Sir Neil call.
Margaret had just thrown oil over the side of the ramparts, at a very young boy, whom she had missed. He now hung to his ladder, grinning at her, a dagger clenched in his teeth. Arrows rained past him, over her.
She had become accustomed to the barrage and she did not flinch or even duck. She glanced at Sir Neil, who was bleeding from his shoulder. “They are about to scale the walls below the first tower, and once they are within, they will lower the drawbridge,” he panted.
For an instant, she simply stared at him.
“It is over, we have lost—you must flee.”
Their gazes were locked. Then Sir Neil took his sword, raising it threateningly. The boy she had been fighting ducked, and then raced back down his ladder.
Margaret tried to comprehend him. Dying men littered the floor of the ramparts, alongside the already dead. Some were MacDonald soldiers, others were her own archers and men. Two women, one elderly, also lay as corpses.
Margaret had never known such despair—or such desperation. “Is there any chance we could hold them off below?”
“We have lost most of our archers. No.”
She inhaled, hard.
“It is a matter of hours, or even less, Lady Margaret, and they will have breached our walls entirely. We do not have enough men to fight them now. Your horse is ready. I will take you to safety.”
Sir Neil was in earnest now—he meant to rush her away. They had lost.
She knew she must not fall into the Wolf’s hands. But she stared across her ramparts. The women continued to boil oil and throw it at the enemy, but they were so clearly exhausted. The blonde stared at her now, her mouth pursed. Had she heard? Did she know that Sir Neil wished for her to flee? A few of her soldiers were fighting the enemy with daggers, not far from her. And she had only four archers left, but they were not even firing their arrows now. Instead, they were staring at her, too, as was Malcolm.
How could she leave them now? When the Wolf intended to execute them all?
“I am not abandoning my people,” she heard herself say.
Sir Neil choked.
She had no will to explain. But the men and women who had survived were her responsibility.
She must beg for the Wolf’s mercy, she thought.
“It is time to surrender,” she said tersely.
“Lady Margaret,” said Sir Neil, “he will not accept your surrender now, when victory is but hours away!”
God, was he right? She knew nothing of warfare! “If we try to surrender now, maybe he will show mercy later.”
Sir Neil was aghast. “You will be his captive, Lady Margaret, and you’re too valuable to be taken hostage. We must go! I swore to keep you safe!”
He was right—she would be taken prisoner. In that moment, Margaret knew she would rather be a hostage for the rest of her life than flee her people, leaving them to be slain by the Wolf of Lochaber. She must fight him tooth and nail, she thought, until he showed them mercy.
One battle had ended, now, another had begun.
“Raise the white flag,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
MARGARET STARED UP at the gray sky, watching the white flag of surrender as it was hoisted high above the south tower. It slowly unfurled.
Tears blurred her vision as the hail of arrows lessened, as the barrage of missiles and stones ceased. The clang of swords was silenced, as were the whistling screams from the projectiles, the whirring from the arrows, the shouts of men being burned and falling to their deaths.
Castle Fyne was lost. The Wolf had won.
Pain stabbed through her chest. It was over.
She glanced around carefully. A great many women had survived the battle for the keep, but only four archers, three soldiers, Malcolm and Sir Neil remained from amongst her men. Dismay sickened her.
She did not want to count the dead, which littered the ramparts. But there were dozens of wounded who needed care.
But no one moved. The women simply held their pots; her four archers their bows. Malcolm had come to stand beside her with Sir Neil. The enemy hung on to their ladders, while the other MacDonald soldiers, already atop the ramparts, remained unmoving.
It had become silent and still below, too. The sounds of the battle in the barbican were gone. She glanced across the army below her, which was still, and she heard a bird chirp. She scanned his hundreds of men, looking for him. Then she heard another bird, and another one.
“Where is he?” she spoke in a terse whisper.
“There,” Sir Neil said.
Margaret looked back down at the assembled army, but still, she did not see him. “Sir Neil, it is time for you to go. You must tell Buchan what has happened.”
Sir Neil hesitated; she knew he did not wish to leave her.
“You must go, I am commanding you to do so!” She did not know if the MacDougalls would attempt to take the castle back from MacDonald, but Buchan would be furious, and he would assemble an army. Or would he?
“Very well,” Sir Neil said. He ran into the north tower.
And then she heard Alexander MacDonald. “Lady of Fyne!” It was a harsh, unfriendly shout.
Her gaze veered to the sound as he now rode his gray stallion forward, appearing alone in front of his
